Letters | Letters To Leonor

Dear Leonor,

Blue mats lined the ground at the bottom of the steps. The walls and shelving were all white. It was a basement, a playroom even. We spent plenty of time down here playing around since we moved here. The laundry machines were off in a corner, removed from everything else in its own separate room. There was a simple white door, and once you came in there was a toilet to the right.

I went to pee down there as the upstairs bathroom was probably busy. I had done it many times, so I didn’t think much of it. I was sitting on the toilet seat and had just wiped, but as I saw the toilet paper come out from in between my knees, it was red. I screamed. I dropped it into the bowl. Then I yelled. “PAPI!” “PAPI!” I just kept screaming out for my dad. I can’t remember but I don’t think I even pulled my pants up. I was just standing over the seat screaming out to him. He eventually came down and by this point I was standing off to the side of the toilet bowl, which was brazen with a deep red. I gestured towards it crying furiously. He pulled me into a hug and said “I’m so sorry your mother couldn't be here for you for this.” I wept into his shirt, as he held me there.

This is one of the first moments in my life that I felt such a deep anguish and anger towards your absence. I cried so hard into Papi’s chest as he stood there helplessly. He didn’t explain what was going on in my body. He probably didn’t know what to say or do. I remember that once I had started to settle--- after crying so hard, nothing else could come out and I was physically tired from my exasperations--- he pulled away, asking if I was okay once more. I said yes through sniffles, and he left me to compose myself. I didn’t realize then that that was how it was always going to be. That I would always have my dad, but he would never have the answer. He was a puzzle piece that you could make fit, but left an indent in the overall picture. One you knew couldn’t fit in that place you wanted it to.

What nonsense. What absolute bullshit. The anger was so heavy and burdensome in my eleven-year-old body. But instead of being angry at the world, at your illness, and what it robbed me of, I was mad at you. I thought you were responsible for all this. I just saw your actions, but seemed to forget you were no longer at the core of what you did. It was this disease.

I can still feel that pain in my chest when I close my eyes. That’s why this memory stays so vivid in my mind. Throbbing and aching is the pain in my chest. This tight grip it has over me and the way it rattles through the fibers of my flesh and the profound cavities of my body, I can only compare to my burning, everlasting anxiety I eventually developed. A constant reminder of what I didn’t and will never have, and how it has marked me.

He was a puzzle piece that you could make fit.

Dear Leonor,

Black ink and sticky fingers may seem to be fine for young kids getting into trouble, but that feeling of plastic and the way you held my brother when you were placing his little fingers in the ink doesn’t sit well with me. I’ll never forget how you rested him on your hip and asked us to do this. At a young age, I said, “this is weird, no.”

It didn’t help that for some reason, maybe from the very beginning, I had this resistance against you. You can say it’s me being a daddy’s girl, but I feel like it was more. Despite how you immigrated here, there were cultural aspects you didn’t understand. I remember when you sent me to second grade with a bag of toiletries, a small clear drawstring with toilet paper and soap for me to bring to the bathroom. My teacher asked me where I was going with "that", and I haven’t forgotten the giggles and humiliation that followed. I remember coming home and telling you and Papi about it, upset and frustrated. I understand it’s what you did as a little girl in school in Mexico, but this is just an example of how there is always some sort of disconnect you don't see.

I know I struggle to pronounce “Th” because of you and Papi’s accents. I think it’s funny and I never really mind it, it’s more of a joke amongst my friends. But these are the hints of my backgrounds, which has lead to these oddities. And these oddities, I can understand, I've grown to love even. But this ink, and what it meant, and what I was told you did, no, I can not understand that. This was wrong. I feel anger and sadness and jumbled inside, at that thought.

How sad, you dirtied our fingertips, you took our fingerprints, and you put ads up about us being missing kids? How could you do—wait, I am not angry anymore, I am sad again—let me correct myself….what could have gone so wrong in your head for you to think that? I can sit in the severe sadness of this, as if it was a pool of black ink I created. Jesus. When you really think of it, it’s sickening, but yet all I can do is recycle the tears, urging them to gently retreat from the front of my eyeballs, and try not to think of this literally. But this was my life, this happened to me.

No wonder the spaces in my head I also refrain from exploring. When I think too much about moments like this, and how they made me feel about you, they twist and perplex me. I feel like a towel being wrung out and battered against an old school washboard. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know how I should feel, but most concerningly, I don’t know what is wrong for me to feel. I swear, someone should write a set of guidelines, a handbook even, of how to process, understand, and cope with a loved-oned with Capgras syndrome. It’s maddening, and I believe it to be the reason behind the eternal sadness within me. Which has manifested into chemical deficiencies in my brain, and into why I hate to open my eyes in the morning. To rest my eyelids, and be in a state of slumber, is to escape from the madness of the real world. I feel pleasure when I sleep. My body relaxed and my mind at ease for the only time in the day. I am in no way suffering from a hallucination-inducing disease, and I say this without trying to offend, but the voices in my head truly stop. My voices, that tell me what I am supposed to be doing and that speak about these topics, like you. Maybe this is why I always have some spoofy, silly show playing in the background, and why I must entertain myself until the very last minute I close my eyes in bed.

My life is not bad in any way. I am successful, studying at a top university, I'm both internally and externally beautiful, and I am fulfilled in many ways, and yet the absence of you seeps into every aspect of my life. The trauma of trying to understand you and your illness has broken me mentally. It’s caused depression and anxiety and these are my true follies. But it always comes back to you. It’s like hitting replay consistently, but my hand isn’t on the arrow. I am not in control, I am just repeatedly humbled by what it has meant, to not have you.

But it always comes back to you.

Dear Leonor,

This is something I've wanted to write to you about, but every time I see the title I wrote as a reminder, I internally shudder and close up. "The mirror" is how I referred to it. It is something so personal and embedded in the framework of who I became, that I feel such discomfort at the thought of sharing it. I am uncomfortable being vulnerable with anyone, let alone people I love. It's like the same feeling I get on a rollercoaster, where I almost wanna pee, like I feel like peeing, but I really don't actually want to pee.

Mom, this just really hits to my core. Like it's the little girl inside me. Please hold your breath and just listen. Because my eyes are welling as I write this, my eyesight is blurrying.

Mom, I was once a little girl. I was 11 or 12 years old. I remember it was 5th grade, and we were living in Cresskill, in a house. I had a foldable table as a piece of furniture in my room. Then I made a poster that I hung on my wall, and I would look up at it every night. I would ask God to not have us move again, because of how much we already had. I just wanted stability and I just wanted friends. I remember dancing to Usher in the mirror-covered doors that covered the closet. I remember the book report I completed and my incomplete friendship bracelets I placed on the table. I was a little girl. This same house is where I got my period for the first time too. I guess this was the time in my life where I needed you most. It's been preserved in my mind as if to tell me this.

In the bathroom, the mirror was like a trifold. It had the main big mirror and two side mirrors. It made a rectangle missing one long side. Sometimes I would look into the side mirror for fun and see like twenty of me behind me.

I would just stare at this mirror. I would study my face. My eyebrows, and all the dark hair I had all over my body so apparent. I felt like a gorilla. I also had acne. I would tell myself "you are so ugly."I was so frustrated with how I looked. I felt clueless and hopeless. I felt worthless for the first time. This was the moment I started to dislike myself. When I first started to believe I was ugly and that I was no one.

I don't know why this was hard to say. I guess I could go more in depth, but I physically can't. It hurts me. I see her in that mirror. She needed you mom. I needed you then.

When I grabbed one of Papi's razors and tried to shave the hair off my hands, I needed you. When I accidentaly shaved off a flake of skin, I needed you. When I rushed to Papi, scared because of the blood coming out, I needed you. When he told me "Oh Nathalita, you don't need to do that," I needed you.

I still struggle to feel beautiful. And I still struggle to feel worthwhile too. But I can't escape this moment, because it's when these feelings I had became a reality to me. I am scared, almost saddened, at the thought of any other child feeling this way.

Would you have told me I was beautiful?

I honestly question any compliment I receive because I feel like those who love you say it out of obligation. I know I am not ugly, but what if I was? Would you still tell me I was beautiful? Do you understand, like what I am supposed to believe? I choose to believe none of it. Because I am secretly scared it's not the truth, and that, that little girl was right, she isn't beautiful.

Mom, tell me how I can overcome this. How can I get it to stop piercing me where it hurts? Why can't I face her? Why can't I convince myself it isn't true? Mom, I need you.

I need you.

Dear Leonor,

Something has really bugged me that you do. I hated it the times I saw you do it. I couldn't understand how anyone could do that, how other people also acted this way. To this day, how?!

How can you pet a dog with your feet?

It's like you are trying to maintain a certain distance. Like you are scared of them.

How could you be scared about these wonderful beings, beings that in many ways have done more for me than you. That felt harsh, but damn it mom you are a stranger. I can't recall the last time your hugs felt like from someone I know, or honestly, the last time you hugged me.

This is getting ridiculous. You put me through insanity. You put me through so much. Ugh, just how do you do that?

But then I get a nuzzle from Lilo's long black snout. Or Looney sees I'm on the couch and then comes and sits on me. Year after year when I come home from school, I treasure being on the perfect spot on the couch right in between the two curled up floofs.

Since we've had them, I've felt the hole that you created patched up, smaller, and less rigid.

I've felt love mom. True love. I have felt a love that was matched and given back three fold. Mom I can't describe with the perfect words the bounds of what I feel. All I can say is, this is truly one of the deepest pleasures of my life, to love and be loved by a dog.

When I was growing up, Lilo---a 110-120 lb blonde German shepherd, would sleep in my room, and she and Looney---a Siberian husky whom we got later---still do every time I come home from school. Lilo takes up half my bed and snores. Looney would join for a bit on the other side of me, until getting too hot and finding his cool spot right in front of door, being our protector.

Papi got Lilo after a therapist recommended he get us a big dog, one we could hug, and I have never forgotten a hug since. Nights in my room when I felt alone, Lilo was there to accept my love. She is a gentle giant as they say. The sweetest, most delicate and elegant lady who never spills or drips when she drinks water, instead taking slow dollops as her tongue laps the water in the bowl.

I can't help but think of Nana from Peter Pan, dogs like this exist believe it or not, and they are the biggest jewel in any family.

Papi is funny. Every time I call him or when I come home, I swear he has a new nickname for Lilo. "Lili B" is the latest. I love to see the way he looks at her, there is so much love behind the crinkle of his crow's feet. His eyes have shown me so much about love.

I keep a hand drawn portrait of Lilo above my desk, I think I made it at 12 or 13. I have a small sketch of the three of us, Lilo, Me, and Looney that I made there too. Don't think I am forgetting about Looney, he is one-of-a-kind. Looney is so loving, and he is one of the reasons why I love huskies. He taught me that abundance is a synonym for affection and that it comes in a multitude of forms.

I don't know. Lilo is getting older. In fact she is at an age that google said can be the end of her lifespan and it's making me feel a certain type of way.

What am I gonna do when I lose her?

I can't lose her too.

I feel like I will be in double pain. A loss of two mothers might be too much.

Mom, you should've never pet her with your feet. It still annoys me to this day.

Abundance is a synonym for affection.

Dear Leonor,

Tell me, what is a house without a woman's touch? Oh it's Papi's home. Especially since I've been gone. Who paints the walls a light gray? Dreary. I don't want to live in fog.

It's just insane, I'm telling you. The things he does to that house. Always another project, always another home depot run.

I love Papi, he tries so hard and he is a good man, but as an adult I have come to realize that parents try their best, but sometimes fall short.

I remember when I grew boobs, and his hugs became different. I get why, I mean how do you hug a preteen girl after that.

I felt a lack a warmth in the house. Just the small things that women think about. A scented candle, a placemat, a something. Not leather couches and hardwood floors. A carpet, accent pillows, flowers, even an air freshener! Something!

You think this is silly, don't you? Maybe it is. But I longed for it growing up, and I grew so green at any friend's house when I saw it.

Did you know I once took a sewing class? Yeah, I really wanted to learn how to sew but you weren't there to teach me. But of course when I went it was everyone and their mom, LITERALLY, there. I never went back. I still wish I could sew well though, I only know a bit.

Maybe we could've created a home together. Maybe it's something we would have done, something we could have made.

I have trace memories of us making "Gorditas de Arena" in the kitchen, with a rolling pin. I have a singular memory of a huge dollhouse you got me. Do you ever think of how much more we could have had? I think about it all the time.

Mom, I've made my apartment a home, and I just want you to know that.

I think about it all the time.

Dear Leonor,

I think I was 15 or 16 when I discoverd the Vampire Diaries, and man what a rush. I learned about sexual desire from one scene pressed up against lockers and Artic Monkeys playing in the background.

I however, was not pressed up against any locker, but proceeded to spend a summer in my bedroom watching this show endlessly. I remember Papi came in one time, and I didn't want to do anything but watch. He exclaimed "Just get up, I don't understand."

Looking back I now recognize that I was severely depressed, but I wasn't bothering anyone or harming myself. I mean I definitely could have exercised a bit, but overall it was harmless so it persisted.

It was my first glimpse I think, of what I have. It sounds so bad, "of what I have." How else can I talk about it? I am not "mentally ill" but I am mentally ill, if you know what I mean.

It wouldn't be until much much later that I was officially diagnosed with Depression, Generalized Anxiety, and an attachment disorder, but all I knew at that time was that I was sad and I had a poor self-esteem. These qualities eventually led to me being a doormat for most my life and dating the wrong boy in high-school, repeatedly, and not being able to speak up for myself.

That summer stays so preserved in my mind because I wish I knew what was going on within me. My dad chalked it up to being lazy, but I was always a very motivated student so it didn't seem right.

The only other memory of any anxiety or issues I had was at a very young age. I faintly remember having a panic attack in a bathroom stall. I think I was having trouble taking off a leotard and somehow got stuck. I felt like I was gasping every couple of seconds, I just couldn't breathe and I was making a sound that felt almost like a hiccup. But still, this wasn't something known or understood by you or Papi, I wonder if you even knew.

I am the oldest. I am first. I am the one Papi was the strictest with, and it didn't help that I was the only girl. But that also means I was the guinea pig. I am the reason Papi understands mental health and knows it's real, despite what our family and culture believes.

I know you don't believe in it. It's because you've been told that you are crazy. But mom, you are not crazy, you are just sick. But I also know that part of this sickness is being in denial. I also know that a part of your personality is being stubborn. That is one of the aspects of your personality my dad has told me much about. Why? Because I am stubborn too. Neither one of us is crazy mom.

I don't know how to explain this to you, but I will try. You got sick mom. You had that tumor in your brain and it was benign. Then they took it out, and you survived. But mom, despite the best that they did, at such a good hospital, there was damage left. The brain, as wonderful, plastic, and amazing it can be, it's also in a lot of ways, quite fragile. So you developed this disease, Capgras syndrome, where you don't recognize me as your daughter, you think I am an imposter. It makes you paranoid, fearful, and alone, and like you haven't seen your real family since it started.

I will never forget when Papi told me of one time he was driving with you and you were in the passenger seat, and he asked why you were upset. You said "I haven't seen my parents in 15 years." But mom you saw them a year ago. I can't even fathom the pain you feel, especially thinking your kids are still missing. But I wish you could snap out of it. Maybe that's why I hate the way you pet the dogs, because it's just how I feel, so close yet so far away from you. I feel like there's an inch of glass between us. If only I can wedge my way in or break it. I wish I can crawl inside your brain and shake you, wake you up into reality.

Do you understand that I hate this for you? But only now have I been able to see you as a sick person. Growing up I was filled with such a rage because I didn't completely understand how this is not who you are, that this is an illness. So I blamed you because your actions felt intentional, like you were trying to hurt me. Now I am kicking myself for the hugs I didn't accept when I was at an age where I was recognizable or resembled the daughter you thought you lost. I am sad. I have been sad. Mom you abandoned me but I can't even be mad about you abandoning me, because you did it at no fault of your own. What utter lunacy and unfairness. Cruelty.

I am mentally ill, mom. I am. But mine, Mom, is normal given the circumstances, given what our family went through. I was affected by all of this. I felt insecurity at home, especially when we moved around a lot when Papi was trying to make ends meet and custody issues were happening. I mean your divorce took 4 years because people had never heard of your disease before. I became anxious. And your disease, your never-ending disease, it traumatizes me daily. Living with that pain every day, no wonder I wanted to commit suicide. No wonder my brothers are also afflicted with many of the same issues. It's not your fault mom. Please don't feel bad. I'm just trying to explain this to you. I want you to understand how twisted our fate was. I want you to understand that our sick is not your sick mom. Your sick is unfathomable, and unfortunately, incurable.

Cruelty.

Dear Leonor,

I have a question. Do you like the holidays? I remember how you used to be with us on Jan 6th, the day of the three kings. You would say that you cleaned up poop and water and the mess that the elephants and camels made when they arrived. I remember putting one of my shoes under the tree to be filled with treats. Soon that stopped though, and I started to wonder what other holidays you liked, because we really didn’t get to spend that many together before everything changed.

I bet you don’t like Mother’s day. I don’t. But I know that we don’t like it for different reasons. You get a card from my dad, where it’s obvious that he wrote in all our names. I had nothing to do with it. Why would I? I can barely get you to see me, I am a stranger to you when you see me in person. You’ve been gone, living a new life without us for a long time. You have been gone, so why would I? I know Papi does it out of love for you being the mother of his kids, and because he loved you for the 19 years you were married, but also because of obligation. He feels bad, because he did know you, and now knows who you are now. I feel like I am mean, but I don’t mean to be. Do you know he writes all of our names?

Mother’s day is just hard for me. But I know it’s not hard for just me. I am not using that as an excuse for not doing anything for you, but I am. I just feel physically nauseous at the thought of getting you something because the soul I speak to now, the person I long for, doesn’t exist within the physical constraints of your body anymore. So it’s in vain. It’s better I speak to you through my thoughts. Do you think this is how other people cope? Those who have lost a parent?

I think it’s sad but also lucky that I know you were a good person, and that you were a good mom when you were fully there. Because there are many people who have their moms in their lives but they suck. I mean there are mothers who are practicing alcoholics, drug addicts, abusive, and who simply don’t care about their children. There’s also mothers who are simply bad parents, maybe in a reversed role where they act more like kids themselves. So does this mean, someone else out there could make a similar series of letters to their mom? But these letters are instead about their hatred towards their mother and how their mother’s presence impacted them? Oh I am 130% certain there’s many like that out there. So why then? Why do we talk about these ladies in or not in our lives, who were in it enough to fuck it up?

Maybe we all would love to write to our idealized mothers, the ones we wished we had. That’s what I am doing. But there’s this angst. There’s this unsettling feeling, because we all know that that is not what we really have. It’s what we want, or wanted, but it’s not real. Reality kind of sucks though. I mean that’s why there’s been periods of my life where I couldn’t get up earlier than noon, because the truth I lived in sucked.

So what then? What do you do with mommy issues? I’ve been trying to conquer them like some level on candy crush, but guess what? That shit never ends, just like candy crush, there’s always another level. So again, what the fuck can I possibly do?

Go on.

Binge watch shows next mother’s day. Buy a pint of ice cream the following one. Just keep going. Why? Because I have to believe that a mom, no matter how shitty or how much they fucked you up, intrinsically knows that you deserve better, but in this cruel world, you have to make it better for yourself.

Just like candy crush, there's always always another level.

Dear Leonor,

My favorite season is the fall, and I think it's because of how I loved to play soccer on a crisp fall day. It was the perfect weather, and it felt so fresh and clean. In high school, there was a big tree at the bottom of a hill where we used to put all of our soccer bags. You would see a bunch of them slowly making their way up the hill, like scattered Easter eggs. I remember this girl in high school, who I was often compared to---my friend-turned-rival academically, although I genuinely was heartbroken when she decided that's what we were. She had everything. Because she always had cut apple slices in the side pocket of her soccer bag.

Do you understand the meaning of that? I've never envied anything more. I will always remember the sight of that ziplock bag in that black mesh pocket on the right side of her red soccer bag. I didn't understand priviledge to its full extent until I got to college. That's also when I started to recognize many of the obstacles I'd overcome. And those apple slices, I mean, it's like the most perfect representation of priviledge.

Let me break it down. And by the way, I know her mom, and this woman, I mean you could look up perfect mom in wikipedia and this woman's face would be there. I will say that although she glared at me at graduation, her daughter won the race, so I don't know why there was so much beef. I mean, she was Valedictorian. She got the damn apple slices, okay? She won, so leave me alone.

Anyway. Apple slices. Cut apple slices. Now this is a multi-step process. First, the thought crosses the mother's mind, "Oh I am a second parent in a two parent household and I'm not sure if I have a job or what, but it's the morning, and she might need a snack after school during soccer practice." Second, "Let me get her a snack for soccer practice before she goes to school" Third, "I want it to be a healthy snack, let me get her some fruit." Let's keep going, "Oh an apple, let me cut it up so it's easy for her to eat, and she doesn't have to eat it all at once or hold it while she is trying to play." "Here, let me put it in a ziplock, Oh and where is her soccer bag? I can put it there for her." Daughter proceeds to have the cut apple slices in her pocket, that many times she won't even eat, while Nathalie notices as if she pulled out a fresh pack of gum during class, yeah bitch, you better believe I want some damn apple slices. The end.

It's the thought okay? It's the forethought. It's the planning and the ability to execute the action. This is all what kills me. Because you better believe, my single-working dad doesn't have time for that shit. We just wanted that man to get home from work at a decent time so he could make us dinner.

I am just baffled to this day. What would that have been like? What would that have meant? It's something so small, but it says so much.

I have done so much by myself. So many things I wish I had guidance on. I mean, even applying to college. It was me. I walked through life, now I realized, like with one hand tied behind my back, as I navigated the world-- the eldest of immigrant parents. My dad never went to college. And it was on me. There was so much pressure on me. There still is.

As I said, I love the fall. It's the start of a new school year, it's a new beginning. I think it's a hope for a great year, and I think that's what has kept me going for the longest time. Hope for more, hope for greatness, hope for you, and hope for me.

What would that have been like?

Dear Leonor,

So I know you are wondering why I didn't win, right? I still think the biggest loss was the apples slices, but yes, why wasn't I valedictorian? Well it's because my dumb ass thought we could have gotten to know each other. I switched schools junior year to come live with you, delusionally thinking we could form a real connection and at the same time I could go to a better high school. When I would see you, you just acted normal enough after all this time, that I thought maybe I could form a connection with you. Maybe just by living together, we would bond as mothers and daughters do.

I made it only 2 months with you mom, I'm sorry. It was too much for me. Then I transferred back, had to redo multiple months of work for many classes, months into the curriculum, and I got my first B in AP biology. Let it be known that my highschool was terrible. To put it clearly, my AP psych teacher said "our kids don't get into Ivy Leagues." However, I was deferred by Princeton, and they asked me to provide a higher test score. Granted I already had a 31 on the ACT, but I lowkey could have gotten a 33 if I brought up my math. I was getting a 36 in reading/writing, and 33-34 in other areas. But I had an anxiety attack and had already gotten into NYU, Boston College, UNC Chapel Hill, Boston University, and the best university in the world, the University of Michigan, so I was like fuck it. Be it to say, that I did quite well coming from the actual armpit of New Jersey. Meanwhile, you lived in the area I originally grew up in, before we went into debt over your deferred payments and hospital bills. The esteemed Bergen County, that churned out Ivy League grads like butter, and specifically Tenafly, was one of the best public school systems in the state, if not recognized nationally. It was the public school system through which I skipped a grade, before all our family stuff happened.

So what went wrong? I mean, I easily made friends and I got on the Varsity soccer team, so what was the problem?

I still felt so estranged. I felt so distant from you although we lived in the same house. Also your apartment was like a cemetery for all the stuff that filled my childhood home growing up. Everywhere I looked it was a trigger of the life we once had. I couldn't handle it. Your touch felt cold and foreign. Our conversations so so vapid, so superficial. We couldn't talk about anything real, because then we would just argue, about you being sick, and you not believing you are sick. I hated walking into rooms, seeing you suddenly stop gesturing to yourself, and hearing the muttering cease. I was living somewhere where so many dreams had died. And there was a centipede I saw crawl across a vent. I think I lost it after that.

Also, these people I was surrounded with at school, they like probably had apple slices for every occasion. I remember one girl lived in a mansion that had a gate connecting her backyard with her cousin's. Like what the fuck. We're talking million-dollar houses. That was not me, that was not us. I was embarassed. But I wouldn't have been embarassed back home, in our small town of Ringwood. It was just different. I didn't belong there in many ways, and quickly I grew depressed. I also was being really academically challenged, but when I would otherwise rise to the challenge, I was already exhausted and burnt out emotionally in coming home. So I had no support, I had no way to revitalize myself and be in a headspace to succeed. I know now from what I achieved in college, that I would have been spectacular. But as a 16-17 year old, I had no idea of the true depths of my abilities.

I feel awful about that time. I genuinely tried. I genuinely wanted it to work. I remember the moment I knew it wasn't. You picked me up from school and asked me "how was your day?" in a perfectly normal way, just like any parent would. Then I said "it was fine, it was good," again, just like any kid would. But I know I had to stop there, and I know I couldn't actually share myself, my inner thoughts with you. It was the most anguish I'd felt during this realization. I couldn't be myself, I couldn't be real with you. I know you were acting normal, and that if I said more, if I were to tell you how I was feeling or how I missed my family that you would say something off. I remember Papi told me that they had to get a forensic psychologist during your divorce trial to demonstrate your mental illness, because you knew how to act and compose yourself in front of others. It's your beliefs about us as "not your family" and your paranoia that is hard to demonstrate.

You texted me this some time after I moved out, and it's probably one of the most fully formed demonstrations of how your illness has affected your thoughts:

"Nathalita,

I have more than one Nathalita, you have to make sure you do not go out with the same guy, that's unacceptable for you and the rest. I have been asking your Dad to take care of you at any level because when I was little and growing up we knew that people can be in your mind and body and abuse your privacy and your body without caring. You have to be careful and smarter. Do not have a sexual relationship until you have a career and until you are married. Do not accept to be used. Just remember my brothers were able to make a small electrical machine to do it because my father used to repair any electrical appliance. My brothers friends could talk to anyone in their mind to kick the ball for them or make them throw up. Do not allow touching your behind after marriage because that's the first intake for them. Just remember I have several daughters and several boys, Sergei's age and Jeremy's age. This is the problem that I have with your Dad since 2001. Trust me, do not accept to go out with the same guy that any of your sisters go out and do not accept sexual relationships. You will meet a guy that will wait for you until you marry. You have a long road, school is first, your brothers and sisters have to be one and Mom and Dad."

This is what it sounds like when you share what you really believe. And I get it, you think my siblings and I are imposters and that the real ones are somewhere else. I also get your intention in just wanting me to be safe and even can see the rationale and your background coming through, in saving myself for marriage. But I have two brothers and I am your only daughter. My only guess is that you believe there are multiple imposters posing as your children, with just enough similarity to resemble them. I wrote a scientific review on Capgras Syndrome for one of my classes because I wanted to get a better understanding of your disease, and so I am trying to understand. We look and resemble your children but when you touch us, we feel foreign, and for some reason, you think I was lost at age seven, so you are still looking for a child that age. Thus, I don't know if you feel some sort of obligation to these "imposters" because of this, or maybe if it's because we are all that you have.

I can't help but wince reading this because it's so jarring and uncomfortable to read. I think what is hard is that you won't let me go, but at the same time, you won't claim me as yours. So, I am stuck in this in-between which is unbearable. I am not who you want, but I am the closest thing to who you want. But you will never find who you want, because I am who you want, but you will never realize that. I am stuck getting looked over by you, like there is something better out there. I am so tempted to send you an actual letter pretending to be seven, to see how you would love me and take me in. I literally, will never be enough for you.

But these are your thoughts. This is what you truly believe. It's just so sad. It brings tears to my eyes and so it was better to shut it all out. Not to talk. I didn't want to hear it, any of it. But not talking meant we were stationary. We were stuck. Not talking meant that we only exchanged those simple, common, normal words. I couldn't live in the space between those words. I couldn't face the immovable space between us every single day. I was a mere 6 inches away, but forever worlds apart.

It was a doomed and romantic idea that it could have worked. I'm sorry.

I will never forget the way you begged my dad not to take me away from you again when I finally left. Yet now you won't even come see me. What happened to that love? Did I change so much since then? I know it's been like atleast 5 years but I am still your daughter. I want my mother in my life, some how, in some way. I don't want to have to beg you to talk to me. To see me.

I've pushed myself so much academically, and I think at the root of that, is because you taught me to love learning and education. I remember that much, that you used to do some phonics with me around age 3. It's blurry and faint, but I know you cared about that. I keep hoping, as I prove myself what I am capable of, as I achieve things, that you will see me. But you don't. Atleast, you don't see me the way I want you to.

I am here, I am alive, and I am not lost. Please see me.

What happened to that love?

Dear Leonor,

My anxiety, it has siphoned me off from dreams and accomplishments, like how a stroke shuts off a part of the brain. The lack of blood flow, causes a quick death to the tissues if not reoxygenated fast enough. It's like the lack of confidence, that causes a quick end to aspirations I had, are closed off forever, unless I somehow find some nerve in time. Have you heard of a mechanical thrombectomy? It's a procedure offered to patients having a stroke, who have large-vessel occlusions (LVOs) and symptom onset. Basically it utilizes a catheter to break up blood clots, but there's been debate over the literature, about how its use in a given time window is most effective. I bring this up because I wish I could perform some procedure where I take out all my fears and all my doubts, as if I was just set back to defacto mode. What it would be like to be a kid again, unafraid, and dreaming of lighting the whole world on fire. Why is it that as I get older, I feel less powerful? I no longer feel like I can be anything or do anything, there's restrictions to adulthood. Is practicality a cause of anxiety? Nagging thoughts of responsibilities. I feel like anxiety must come from repeated moments, that seep so deeply, they are almost indistinguishable from certain actions.

Can I tell you one of my favorite memories with Papi? We used to sit on that one couch with brown flowers all over it and watch tv. You know the one that had enough space so you could sit and stretch out your legs. I would keep Papi company as the yankees played, and that's how I spent a good amount of my childhood when it still felt like a childhood. I loved watching Derek Jeter play, and I'll never forget watching Hideki Matsui win MVP at the 2009 World Series. I loved it. It felt perfect. Then I went on to play softball and it was great. I made friends. I was very athletic and agile so I learned fast. I couldn't get the hang of hitting, but my coaches thought I would figure it out. Unfortunately, I never did.

Every time I got up to bat, I would have voices telling myself that everyone expected me to fail, and that I sucked. I would lose my nerve, and fill with anxiety, frozen, almost as if I didn't grab the bat tight enough, my hands would shake. And no matter what I did or what anyone said, these feelings and thoughts I had never went away. Instead they grew.

Eventually we hired a hitting coach, and in those sessions, when it was just the coach and I, I could hit like nobody's business. But I couldn't for some reason, translate this to real life. And eventually my performance anxiety crept into every athletic part of me. I was great at playing the field. I was known for my diving catches and my quickness around the plates. Also I knew the game. The game truly is mostly mental, and 10% physical. But it all vanished. A mix of anxiety and old school bullying ruined both the sports I loved. I miss them to this day. Then the people who once believed in me stopped growing patient and changed before my eyes.

I had this one interaction with one of my softball coaches growing up, that I haven't been able to forget about to this day. We were on Happ Field, this secluded field lined with trees, by the police department or borough of Ringwood. I was at home plate and I don't remember if we were doing some sort of drill or he was just trying to get me to hit, but he just got so frustrated with me. All I could remember was physically tightening up and feeling stressed and anxious. I just couldn't do it. And he called me a coward. The other coach that was there said something along the lines of relax or cool off, that he was being too hard on me. It was like an out of body experience.

Coward. Why did I remember that to this day? However many years later. Also why is that what I remembered after the majority, predominantly amount of good memories I shared with this coach that was like a father. I didn't understand. I mean, it didn't help that his daughter was bullying me and harassing me about my mother's illness and what not. I felt unsafe at every practice after that started happening, and I eventually stopped going. I still just didn't get it. I mean this was the man who once told me I was the heart of this team. However, he was also the man who didn't play me when we were winning by a lot, like a ridiculous amount. I remember that even Tito (Uncle) Wilson was pissed, advocating for me. One of the things I remember the most is when he asked us one day, that if we were to go to a lake and walk all the way in, that we needed to want it more than we wanted to breath. That's also something else that has always stayed with me.

Growing up, looking back, I know I still played every game with my heart and soul on the line. You could say anything about me, that I sucked or whatever, but I gave it my all. That's who I am. And when it has really counted, I have pulled through.

But words like coward are harmful to children. Instead, when you teach someone how to overcome their struggles, or at least cope better, they can succeed. I only wish I could have told myself then that I was okay and that I was enough. That I just needed to take a deep breath and remember it was only ever just a game, a game that I loved, that I still love to this day.

One day, this coach messaged me, as he saw my brother in the paper for football, and he said it reminded him of the good times we had. For some reason, I decided I didn't want to carry the weight of his words anymore and I told him how the word he called me affected me and what his daughter did to me. I don't think I ever felt more proud of myself. I told him I was a fucking rockstar and I did pretty well for myself, despite everything I had going on as a kid. And the next thing that happened surprised me. Not only did he agree with me, but he did not recount this event ever happenning. While this event had become a big part of my armour-- a past wound that now fueled me and fired me up whenever I needed to puff out my chest and advocate for myself.

The words we say, man they fucking matter. I felt sad though, he was very upset that he had hurt me, and I could feel that. I told him we should grab lunch next time I'm home, and I am honestly looking forward to it. I feel like I healed myself, broke up a clot I guess, and I felt better. I can only imagine how things could have been different for me if I had a voice then, if I felt strong enough to speak up.

Mom, I have learned to give them hell every time.

It was only ever just a game, a game that I loved, that I still love to this day.

Dear Leonor,

I need to tell you about this time I experienced resistance.

This one is hard.

I am trying to figure out how I want to write this.

Can you imagine the discomfort of a cold breath over your bare shoulder? Can you imagine it coming from someone who shouldn't be that close to you? And you are exposed, and frozen physically in place? Has a touch ever frightened you?

Have you ever reanalyzed every interaction you had with another person? Replaying them like a series of short clips in your head, wondering where it went wrong?

Resistance. Resistance is fighting an unwanted touch. My resistance was fighting an unwanted touch from a man who gained my trust over many years.

He was my best friend's dad. He was the softball coach that defended me one day from the other, telling him to relax and take it easy on me. He had watched me grow up. He had celebrated so many of my wins. He had seen me in a bathingsuit playing with his daughter.

The worst part was, he was my best friend's dad. And although this friend abandoned me, because I was the first to date and thus get heartbroken in our friendgroup, and surprise! go back to that fucker, she was still once my best friend. And I could never tell her that her father did this to me. But that meant, no one could know.

I told one of my friend's moms, and eventually told my dad years later. I quit softball and soccer the following year. I just couldn't stand the sight of him watching me play. My dad told my uncle and my uncle said we couldn't tell anyone. This man had lived here all his life, and he even used to be friends with my uncle, so why would anyone believe me?

Luckily enough I was able to stop what could have happened. I had asked him for a ride home, which wasn't out of the ordinary for our relationship. Again, I had spent so many days at his house and often needed rides since my dad was a single parent. In that car he grabbed my hand and held it. He told me that if I felt uncomfortable that we didn't have to. I was deeply uncomfortable, but I didn't know what to do. I felt paralysed, like every muscle in my body had given out. Now I imagine myofibrils (muscle cells) detaching one by one like in an MS patient. Then he put a hand on my thigh. I don't know how this man was driving. I just remember the strength of his grasp, and how out of adrenaline I was capable enough to put my hand underneath it, where it was met with consistent resistance. This is when I knew something was wrong. I don't know how I hadn't seen it. I was 15 then I think. And I remember him telling us to delete our texts with each other, but never understood why until then. He was my coach, he was like a father to me. And all I remember was feeling panicked, scared, and feeling like that drive was never going to end. I don't think I ever left a car fast enough.

I hate him for how he took part of my childhood from me. How he ruined so many beautiful memories, and is the reason why I grow uncomfortable in any room where I am even slightly alone with a middle-aged men. He is part of the reason why I quicken my pace when I am out at night, ears perked up, and filled with adrenaline, ready to protect myself. He is part of the reason why I won't even hug my dad for too long.

One day I heard he had a stroke, and my Uncle Louy had the audacity to say to him, I guess when he visited him, "I know what you did to my niece." Yet, I was still expected to stay quiet. I love this uncle, but I think it's funny that he thought somehow he avenged me or something. All I knew was that he was half-paralysed, so it meant that he couldn't do this to another young girl, and so I was pleased, satisfied even.

Unfortunately, this wasn't my first experience where a man inappropriately made a move or tried to get my attention, but this one probably has stuck with me the most. I later learned that I wasn't even the first girl he did this too. My uncle Louy had told me, and at that age, I couldn't express how fucked up it was that this could have been prevented. But he told me, it was to keep anonymity to protect the girl. But how about me? How about another possible girl he could have tried with?

In the last couple of years, someone very close to me shared how throughout their childhood, they were repeatedly molested by their neighbor. They were a young child, I think 5 or 6, and this woman was middle aged, with her own children. She would force my loved oned to perform oral sex on her and have sex with her son, among other things. I was disgusted. But most importantly, I felt guilt because I was in close enough proximity in this other person's life that I felt like I should I have known, should have protected them. It was part of my responsibility. I think I was around 11 when this happened for a few years.

I have come across a few things online, and I once saw a dog that was rescued and recovering after it had been severely sexually abused by a human.

I think I've gotten to the point in my life where I am just baffled at humanity. I could share more stories, but for what point? Mom, none of this is your fault, and I'm not saying you could have prevented any of this, I don't know maybe you could have. You know if we had two parents watching over us. But, nothing prepares anyone for this. I mean, what unimaginable actions and fates people have. My heart spills and trembles with trepidation over having my own kids one day. It's 2023, and I can't stop thinking about Gaza, and the images I've seen of small bodies in body bags, covered in ash and rubble. The pain, but also the gentleness in demeanor due to the youth of so many of the fallen.

Mom, I've felt so much pain in my life, and in a lot of ways, I still have it way better than a lot of others who aren't safe in home, who don't have to eat or sleep. But mom, I will never stop experiencing pain until I take my last breath. Although your illness has caused me much of that pain that I carry with me every day, what it really has robbed me of, is the ability to share my pain with you.

As I struggle to understand the meaning of this life and what is the purpose of my existence, I honestly wish that I could just tell you what has happened to me. I have never longed so much for a conversation.

I have never longed so much for a conversation.

Interlude >